Centrifuge
by akabins
Summary: Ariadne thinks she can move on after the inception, but when Arthur offers her another job, she leaps at the chance. Back with the team, she discovers new and challenging emotions between sweet Arthur's crush and her passionate chemistry with Eames.
1. Prologue

Prologue!

Take a cup of tea with loose leaves in it, the kind that float around until you drink them or turn the cup upside down to read your fortune. Using a spoon, stir the tea and watch the leaves. Science will tell you that centrifugal force should push the leaves to the outside of the cup, and yet the leaves in a cup of tea will migrate toward each other. It's a paradox. One thing to always remember though is that many paradoxes are solvable.

The money from the Fischer job is enough to pay off my tuition at the Sorbonne, enough to pay for my PhD in neurological biology, and yet all I can think about is returning to the heist; illegal jobs in extraction and maybe even inception, living a life of crime. There's another paradox for you. Just as I have enough money to pay for all of my schooling, I no longer want it. What is it that I want?

I spend my days wandering alone through Paris, reliving the job. Cobb got his retirement with his children, Saito runs the largest energy company in the world, Arthur is in the States and who knows where Eames is. Probably back in Mombasa. At first I thought the money would be enough, that I could return to Paris and pursue my education with new zeal, but then the classes became monotonous, my mind remaining in a place where anything is possible: dreams.

Even when I sleep, I dream about dreams. Almost always the same one. I'm in a city with no name, a city created by imagination only. There are balloons everywhere, flying ships and tall buildings that shine like bronze. It's like a child's dream, so fanciful and filled with colour. The gentle scent of a deep, musky cologne fills my head as if I'm going to fall down dizzy. I'm happy in this dream, and then I wake up. Sometimes I wake up from my alarm or from traffic, but tonight I am woken up, torn from my dream by a simple _knock_, _knock_, _knock_.

I glance at the clock. It's 5am. Who in hell would knock on my door at 5am? I wriggle into a crisp white nightgown and stomp over to the door of my small apartment. The door knocks again, louder this time. I slide back the chain, twist the deadbolt and open the door a crack. The light from the hallway is nearly blinding, but I can make out the distinct figure of a slender man in a sharp black suit. His hair is slicked back and his face lights up into the semblance of a grim when he sees me.

"Arthur?" I murmur. I groan before letting him into my kitchen, reluctantly turning on the light. A quick glimpse in the mirror reveals that I do indeed look like ass. My long hair is curled up in knots and there's mascara running under my eyes. Arthur follows me in and stands near the door. I turn on my coffee maker, knowing that I won't be able to get back to sleep now.

"How are you, Ariadne?" he asks. He looks the same, still handsome in that boyish way, quiet, showing so little emotion ever. I've often wondered what he thinks of, what he dreams of on his own. People's dreams can tell you so much about them.

"I'm doing alright. What about you? I thought you were going to take a break from travelling for a bit," I reply groggily. He chuckles briefly, his gaze on the floor.

"Well, there really is nothing like Paris, is there?" he replies. I let him stand there, grab myself a mug and fill it up with steaming hot coffee.

"You want some?" I ask. He shakes his head no quickly and decisively.

"I'm actually here to give you a job offer," he says. I place my mug carefully on the counter. Be cool, Ariadne, it's not normal to squeal and jump in the air. Act professional. Instead I whip around to face him.

"Yes," I say. Shit. So much for playing hard to get. Arthur's lips curl up gently and he takes a seat at my small, round kitchen table.

"I knew you were hooked," he says. I sigh deeply and sit down beside him. It's been so long, but it seems like just yesterday we were all together everyday, planning out the inception. I didn't realize that I missed the people just as much as I missed the job.

"So tell me about it. What are the parameters?" I ask. He pulls out a large envelope with some papers and photographs. One is an enlarged shot of a little boy, maybe eight or nine.

"This is Zachary Jones. He's the son of-"

"-Waylon Jones. The Waylon Jones?" I interrupt. Arthur nods. God, a job on the Joneses, possibly the biggest name in corporate banking. The name jogs a memory somewhere, something in the newspaper recently.

"The Waylon Jones. His wife was murdered about three months ago. Pretty woman, very sweet," Arthur continues. He pulls out more photos. Mrs. Jones was indeed pretty, with deep full lips and kind eyes. In most of the pictures she and the younger Jones, Zachary, are together. They play in the park, read books together, blow bubbles. They look like the picture-perfect family.

"So who's paying for the job, Waylon himself?" I ask. Arthur shakes his head, no.

"Marjorie was a Van Haun before she was a Jones. Old money meets new money. Her father is our client, and he wants us to extract the murderer from the boy, Zachary."

"If the kid knows, why wouldn't he say? Has anyone ever done a job on a kid before?" I ask. I have about a hundred other questions whizzing through my mind, but I save them.

"Zachary was there when his mother was killed, but he's in shock and doesn't remember anything. Van Haun wants answers, and to get answers, he needs the kid to remember."

"So we're waking up his subconscious," I murmur. To this Arthur only nods. This job is high stakes, and I can only guess how good the pay is. For the first time in months I feel alive again, my cheeks flushed pink with excitement. I look Arthur in the eye as I confirm. "I'm in, but I guess you already knew that. When do we start, and do you have a team already set up?"

"We start tomorrow. This is going to take a lot of background work, so it's best we get going right away. You know the place. The team will be familiar to you, too. Besides us we'll have Yusuf and Eames. They're already at the warehouse now," he replies. I conjure an image of the other two in my mind. Yusuf: quiet and awkwardly funny. Eames. Well, Eames is a whole story in himself, I guess. I'm looking forward to this too much already.

"Umm, I've got to sort out some things with school. What time do you want me over there?" I ask. I'll have to adjust my timetable and make arrangements for my midterm. Also I should probably shower and do some laundry.

"How about five this evening?" he says. I nod and finally let my stupid giddy smile cover my face.


	2. Chapter One

One

I don't know why, but I actually get dressed up before I leave. I pull on a simple white summer dress that my mom got me ages ago, a cute pair of heels and I straighten out my long brown hair until it's shiny. Thankfully I did dress up, because when I get to the warehouse, all three guys are done up in three-piece suits. Yusuf and Arthur both wear black, while Eames is covered with thick gray tweed. I burst into a smile when I see them.

"Well don't you look smashing?" Eames drawls. I smile shyly and give a small wave of hello. Arthur looks at Eames and then me, confused. Alright, admission. I might've seen Eames around a few times in Paris since the Inception. It's possible we might have had some drinks together and that we probably prank called Arthur at three in the morning and told him he was actually still dreaming. It was funny at the time, but I'd be way too embarrassed to admit it.

"So guys, what's with the suits?" I ask, filling the awkward silence. Arthur replies in earnest.

"We need to woo a new extractor because Eames scared away our number one." Eames sighs, disgruntled before cutting in.

"You can blame me all you want, Arthur. I told you that woman and I had some history and I meant it," he says. Woman, huh? I try to picture her in my mind, coming up with a vision of intense and mysterious femininity. A woman with all the right curves and flowing hair who sweats perfume and only wears lace. The opposite of me, I guess.

"As much as I do love listening to you two squabble, our reservation is at six and if we don't leave soon, we're going to miss it," Yusuf butts in. I giggle slightly as the other two only offer exasperated glances.

"So tell me a little bit about this extractor before we get there," I say once we're nestled into a cab. Yusuf sits up front while I'm stuffed like a sandwich between Arthur and Eames. Why couldn't we spring for a limo at least?

"High class. Probably one of the best extractors out there. He's ridiculously charming and works this to his advantage on a job," Arthur replies. Is that a hint of jealousy I see on his face?

"His name is Henri Toulouse, but around the grid he's known as T. He was born in Paris and is insufferably boorish, but I can't deny his talent," Eames continues.

"Whoa guys, what's with the animosity? And how do you know so much about him?" I ask.

"I worked with him for years," Eames says shortly. He reaches over me in effort to pinch Arthur as he continues.

"Extractor number one was Henri's lady back in the day. If we can get T to join up with us, I have no doubt we'll be able to pull the job without a hitch."

The cab screeches to a stop in front of a fancy restaurant with tall windows covered by silky drapes. It's dimly lit inside and looks private- the perfect place to meet about something like extraction. We hustle out of the cab and the black-clad hostess seats us to our table. I tuck my feet under and try to make myself comfortable. There's a shaped glass jug of water with lime already on the table and we're given small menus while we wait for the rest of our party.

We all order ourselves a glass of wine, red for me, and right on cue, giving us very little time to talk, walks in T. He's dressed impeccably in a dark grey suit and a soft lilac shirt. His hair is short and curly, and his eyes nearly glow their intense blue. Even his shoes are noticeably expensive- alligator with a square toe. He pats Eames on the back as he takes a seat beside him, his eyes beaming with mirth.

"How is my good friend, Mr. Eames?" he says, his Parisian accent thick. I was expecting Eames to be mainly silent throughout this meeting but instead he cheers and greets T with a loose hug.

"Doing better than you these days, I think," he replies. T's laugh echoes as he pats Eames roughly on the back. The waitress returns and the Extractor orders a bottle of a fine vintage. Already getting into my good books. I'm by no means superficial, but I can definitely appreciate good taste.

"I'd be doing better if it weren't for you, Eames. Now introduce me to your lovely friends here," T says. He stops his eyes on me and looks me over. Ick, points lost for creepy.

"I believe you've met Arthur before. This is Yusuf, an expert chemist in his own right, and this little minx is our architect, Ariadne," he says. T takes each of our hands as we're introduced and kisses my hand slowly.

"A beautiful name, Ariadne, and an architect. Impressive," he drawls.

"She's very talented," Arthur says sternly. T faces him and puts up his hands.

"I have absolutely no doubt. Women have a way of seeing right through men, don't they? We might think we are in control, but with women we never are. Before we continue, however, I have a few questions. Primarily, why would you think I would ever work with you again after what you did to me?" he says. Eames turns to face him.

"Come now, T, you're a stylish man. You're not one to let a good job pass by because of the petty past. We need a good extractor for this job, the best. You know I wouldn't call on you unless I thought it was necessary," he says. T seems to think it over for a minute, his eyes focussed on the tiny candle in the middle of our table.

"And what about Florence?" he asks.

"Florence has nothing to do with is, you know that," Eames replies shortly. T runs his thin, spindly fingers through his hair. For a moment I think he's going to snap up and start pummelling Eames, but then he slowly lifts his head with a smile. I can't help but feel wary about this man, like he's got a secret agenda.

"You are right, my friend. Let bygones be, I say. This must be a high profile job at any rate. What are we looking at? Major corporation? Political figure?" he drawls. I sigh a little bit in relief as his body language quietens and he leans back in his chair. Arthur answers, toning his voice down to just more than a whisper.

"Zachary Jones," he says. T's eyebrows leap and he lets out a small chuckle. I let my gaze drift between the faces of the men. Arthur stares seriously, Yusuf looks concerned, while Eames sits in quiet contemplation, his hands linked together in front of him.

"And you think you're ready to handle this?" T asks.

"What do you mean by that?" I interrupt. He looks over at me, his eyes scanning my body again.

"Dear, sweet Ariadne. Entering a dream is always risky, but the way an adult mind dreams is entirely different from a child's dream. Adults think linearly, using reason and logic to sort out the details of a dream. With children, well there's no predicting how the dream is going to turn out. You need to be on your feet and ready at all times, because you never know when and how things will change," he replies. I guess this makes sense. I think back to being a kid, how my imagination ruled my mind and how the slow build up of monotony pushed it away.

We eat dinner, have a few more glasses of wine and go over the simple basics of the Jones job. T proves to be a valuable mind, though his asinine and at times sexually explicit comments grate me the wrong way. Just as my skin starts to feel warm from a wine buzz, Arthur and Yusuf declare that they're going to head home.

"Pleasure meeting both of you, and I look forward to working with this very talented team," T replies, lightly shaking both of their hands. I'm about to stand up myself when T shoots his glance over to Eames. "Let's not end the night already, hmm?" he says quietly. Eames shoots me a look followed by a quick wink.

"You should stay," he says.

"We do need to be up early tomorrow, Ariadne," Arthur chimes in. I wave him off. I hate when people try to make decisions for me.

"I'll be fine," I answer, making myself comfortable once again. I raise my eyebrows at him for effect. Arthur looks down at the floor before offering a quick wave goodbye. As he and Yusuf exit the restaurant, T announces that he's got to use the men's room and will return with another vintage. Again, he's a skeez, but I think he might have his uses. As soon as he's beyond hearing range and turn to glare at Eames.

"You're totally using me," I say. He chuckles quietly to himself. His scent wafts over the table; musky and sweet at the same time.

"I did not," he says, then offers me a devilish grin, "alright maybe a little. But you look the part, eh? T's obviously got a weak spot for beautiful women." I can't help but blush, and turn my head downward to try to hide it.

"But he's so grotesque," I mutter in return. Eames laughs heartily at this.

"Darling, I think you're the first woman I know to not be completely charmed by my dear friend T," he says.

"What about Florence?" I ask. I'd like to say I haven't been thinking about her since she was brought up, but that would be a lie. She hasn't left my thoughts, and I know nothing of her beyond her name and existence. Surprisingly, Eames's face loses all of its usual briskness. He looks down at the table and clears his throat.

"That, I'm afraid, is something for another time," he replies softly. I can see I've hit a nerve. I know I should leave it at that, but it's impossible to not want to know more. Luckily for my dignity T returns with another bottle of red, and Eames's lips turn upwards once again in a grin. Huh. All along I've thought that Eames was just a shark and a lady killer, but he looked so vulnerable there, so raw. Maybe all of this is just an act. I wouldn't put it past him, but can't lie and say I'm not intrigued.

So we drink, and we swap stories about work (well mostly Eames and T do, I've only got one job under my belt, after all), and joke and become incredibly loud until T has to pay off the waitress not to kick us out. It's midnight, then one in the morning. Finally T stands from the table, a little wobbly, and takes both our hands again.

"A bientot monsieur. Au revoir ma belle Ariadne," he says, and with a flourish stumbles his way out of the bar. It's Eames and I alone, once more. I can't help but giggle as I finish my glass.

"I do believe I'm drunk," I say.

"Should we drunk dial Arthur?" Eames suggests, his eyes lighting up. I casually slap his arm.

"We can't do that! He'll know it's us, and then he'll know it was us before. Why was he so weird earlier?" I sputter.

"I think the poor chap has a bit of a crush, that's all. Doesn't like to see a pretty petal like you hanging out with the likes of T or myself," Eames replies. I can't help but think back to the Inception, when Arthur had asked me to kiss him. I wish I could say that I felt something there, but I didn't.

"I don't have feelings like that for him," I state. I almost feel like it's necessary to say this. That I want Eames to know that I don't have feelings for our colleague.

"Well that's good to know." He smiles at me, but this one is warmer than his usual smirk.

"Don't get any ideas now," I say. He laughs as if to himself.

"Don't worry love, you're not that kind of girl."

"What is that supposed to mean?" I retort.

"Exactly what it sounds like. There are plenty of women out there that men like to fuck and discard, but you're not one of them. You've got class. The kind of lady you take out to dinner and treat properly," he finishes. I let go of the tension building in my chest.

"That's really sweet, Eames." I'm hoping to stay out longer but Eames checks his antique pocket-watch and grimaces.

"It's getting late, and I still need to get you home," he says. I groan inwardly as we get the check- well, as he gets the check. We hop into a cab that whirls its way through the Parisian streets until we reach my apartment building.

"Are you sure you don't want to come up?" I ask as soon as we pull to a stop. I'm ridiculously drunk. I am not even thinking before I speak. Eames simply takes my hand and kisses it softly.

"I'll take a rain check on that one, or you'd hate me tomorrow. Now, you get changed into your comfiest pjs and get snuggled in your bed. I'll have aspirin and a hot breakfast ready for you at the workshop tomorrow morning," he says. I leave the cab and stumble my way up the stairs. The cab doesn't leave until I'm safely inside.

I barely make it to my bed before I pass out.


	3. Chapter Two

Two: Let's learn to dream a little bigger

I'm an idiot. A stupid, drunken fool. I wake up the next morning with the sensation that I've been pummelled by a train (okay, not literally, but you know what I mean). My hair is a tangled mess and I'm pretty sure I might still be a little buzzed. Then the night comes back to me in a flash. Way too much wine, out way too late and I _asked Eames to come up_. I groan loudly with embarrassment. With about twenty minutes to get to the warehouse, I tear a brush through my hair and throw it up into a ponytail on my head, then pull on a pair of jeans and a cute purple blouse. I don't look like a model but I don't look like the hangover queen either. Perfect.

When I reach the warehouse (thankfully five minutes early), Eames is true to his word. He's got a plate with eggs and bacon, a glass of orange juice and a bottle of aspirin. He's the only one in the main meeting room, so I plop down into the chair beside him and flash him an appreciative smile.

"Why are you so good?" I ask. He passes the plate off to me and takes a sip of his own cup of tea.

"Feeling a little green, drunky?" he replies, "don't worry, last night stays between you and I," he whispers into my ear. His warm breath sends shivers down my spine. Like clockwork the rest of the crew arrives. T is swathed in a fine navy silk paired with a neon green dress shirt. His black curls have that messy _I just rolled out of bed_ look, but I can only imagine the time he spent this morning making them look that way. Arthur looks… like Arthur. His expression is void as usual, but this morning I feel like I can read further into it. Hadn't Eames mentioned a crush? What if his ambiguous attitude is merely hiding his distaste? Yusuf groans when he enters.

"You didn't make me any?" he says. Eames chuckles to himself. I can't help myself from studying him. The way his hair, cut shorter now, easily hangs over his forehead. The way his lips subtly part, the one day stubble that lines his chin, the constant, intense stare from his eyes. I will myself to stop. It's not easy.

"If you keep eating the way you do, boyo, it's going to be harder to take you out in public," he jokes.

"Good morning guys," I pipe in, trying to take the focus off my breakfast. Arthur barely looks at me as he takes his seat beside Yusuf. T wedges in between myself and Eames while the Point Man gets his presentation ready. I can't help but linger on the words T half whispers in Eames's ear.

"_Elle est retournée. Elle veut vous voir."_ Eames inhales sharply, trying desperately to make it seem like this doesn't affect him.

"_Dites-lui de me laisser seul,_" he mutters in reply. They're talking about her, Florence. I'm hoping they'll divulge a litter more, but Arthur clears his throat, signaling that he's ready to begin. He stands in front of a large white screen with a projector pointed toward it. He turns off the lights.

"This is the mark," he says. On the projector screen a photo of the young Zachary pops up. He's small, even for his age, with light brown bowl cut hair and the shimmering blue eyes of youth. "These are the things we know. Since his mother died he's been sent to an elite boarding school with incredible security. There's not a chance we could do the job in there, so we're going to have to wait until he's out. In two months he'll be having a vacation at his grandmother's house, which will give us one night to do the job. Keep in mind that the Van Haun's don't currently have any custody of the child, so he'll be with the Jones side of the family. This means there's going to be heavy security there as well."

"Well, that's your forte, right Arty?" Eames pipes in only to be received by a sharp glare.

"I'll work on the security and on the kid's background. Yusuf, we'll need tranqs that we can shoot that have high potency and a short half-life. We don't want any lingering evidence," Arthur continues. Yusuf nods and a small grin appears on his face, like a kid in a candy store.

"I've got a new compound I'm working on, but I still need to do some significant testing before we use it," he replies. Arthur gestures toward Eames.

"Eames? You or T?" he says. Eames shakes his head.

"You forget that we're dealing with a different kind of dream. Our lovely architect needs some training, and out of us, actually, out of anyone I know only myself and T have entered a child's dream."

"I can get some students to come in for some extra cash, that's not an issue," Yusuf says. Arthur doesn't look happy, but he nods.

"Alright, let's get to work. We've got two months to make this happen and there is no room for mistake," he says. My, my, Arthur is bossy when he's in charge. Yusuf retreats to the back corner of the warehouse which is cordoned off into a makeshift lab. I'm about to follow Eames and T as they head toward the chairs where the PASIV machine is set up when Arthur taps me on the shoulder. "Can I steal you for a second?" he asks. I look to Eames and he nods without making any eye contact.

"We'll be waiting," he says. They saunter off and I turn to face Arthur. His face is lined with concern.

"I wanted to thank you for agreeing to work on this. I wasn't lying when I said you were one of the most talented architects I know," he says. He stands so close to me, I can feel his warm breath flushing across my neck.

"Are you kidding? I've been dying to work again. Well, you know how it is. There really is nothing like it," I reply. He looks deeply into my eyes, like he's searching for something he knows isn't there, but tries to find it anyway. I have to force my gaze to the floor. There's something unnerving about being looked at this way, like he's trying to peer deep within my soul.

"I think you should stay away from him," he says finally. His voice is low, nearly a whisper.

"Don't worry, I can tell that T is an asshole just by the way he does his hair. That's a fact, you know," I answer. He doesn't laugh.

"I mean Eames. I see the way he looks at you. I've only seen that look once before and it only ends badly. Stay away from him, Ari, I don't want to see you get hurt," he clarifies. I gently tug my lower lip. He's never called me Ari before. I shrug him off.

"Arthur, Eames and I are friends, you don't have to worry about me," I say. He nods again and sets me on my way. I turn and head toward the PASIV room, my heart beating, beating, beating. It's about what Arthur said. _The way he looks at you_. I try to catch Eames's eye as I keep walking, but he keeps his gaze pointed to the ground as he sets up the machinery. T sees. I know he sees, but the little smile on his face tells me that he won't say anything, at least not yet.

Do I look at Eames the same way?

I'm running through a dense forest. It's night time, and the moon hangs precariously above me, a witness to my flight. I'm aware that someone is chasing me, but I don't know who or why. My brain tries to sort out the logic of this question and returns with nothing. I sigh deeply. I'm dreaming. I slow to a walk, the familiarity of the thick dream air settling around me. When you're lucid in a dream, you can do anything. I close my eyes and take a step upwards, as if there were stairs. I can't help but grin when my foot takes hold of nothing, lifting me beyond the ground.

My pursuer catches up with me when I'm already twenty feet in the air. I look down into the brush and make out the faded figure of T, barely winded from running.

"Clever little goose," he calls up to me. I'm about to stick out my tongue when strong arms wrap themselves around me.

"But not clever enough," Eames whispers into my ear. I look around us, we're both standing on nothing, the tree canopy slowly shrinking beneath us as we rise higher. Fluffy, billowy clouds begin to form beneath us, creating a platform where we stand. It lowers us to the ground like an elevator to where T is standing with a small smirk. Eames's arms are still around me and I can't help but enjoy it. Even here in the dream his scent envelopes me and deep inside I don't want him to let go.

But when we land he immediately releases me and returns to T's side. He's not smiling anymore, in fact he looks almost bored.

"The manipulation of a dream is just the beginning, _chere_. The subconscious of a child and their projections aren't quite as aware as an adult, and don't notice when the physics of the dream start to waver from reality. This gives you, the Architect, a lot of room to work, but it also gives the mark more places to hide," T says. We start walking, T and Eames in front as I fall behind to observe. As we exit the forest the trees begin to change, their colours morphing into the fantastic hues of bright neons and soft pastels. The leaves turn into large, colourful bubbles. I reach over and pop one of the bubbles, grinning when it explodes into a thousand smaller bubbles that float through the air.

"It's very easy to get lost in the dream of a child, that's why it's so dangerous. The imagination that we as adults begin to lose is suddenly alive again and more than one experienced extractor has become lost and returned to the real world only wishing for more," Eames says curtly. Cobb's wife Mal comes to mind, the steadily growing loss of reality that lead her to commit suicide. I wonder about both Eames and T. Do they yearn for this wonderful world? Is this how they both met Florence and how she stole both of their hearts?

"So how do we work with the mind in this world? Obviously Zachary's not going to follow us into Candyland. I'm sure he's been given the lecture on how not to speak with strangers," I say. T turns to me and walks backward to reply.

"We forge, of course. Come now, you've worked with the best of the best, Cobb, Arthur, my good friend Eames. Surely they've taught you a little about how to change not only the material in the dream, but yourself as well?" I shake my head no, looking to Eames for help. He shakes his head as well, almost chidingly.

"You've forgotten that Americans know what they know and stick to it, T," he says. T tsks and they share eyes as if there's a secret joke. I know the drill. Knowing only English, being only an architect. That's why I moved to Paris in the first place, to learn more, to learn everything I can. A small bean falls from the sky, burying itself in the ground and immediately growing into an ornately framed full-length mirror. In it I see myself dressed simply in dark jeans and a plain white boy's t-shirt. My hair hangs long in loose curls and my face is au natural.

"Use the mirror, transform yourself. You can do anything you want," T says. I focus hard on my reflection. The roots of my hair fade from their rich brown to a bright blond, shortening until it's a chic bob. I grow taller, thinner, my plain clothes transforming into an elaborate lace dress with a corset and silk stockings. My skin pales except for rosy cheeks and long eyelashes. I look like a model, lithe and ethereal.

"Like that?" I ask. T claps loudly.

"Ah! Magnifique! You could walk the catwalks of Paris!" he says excitedly. I look for Eames's approval. He offers me a tight smile.

"So much talent, but I think you looked better before," he replies. T laughs and pats him hard on the shoulder.

"You always were a sucker for a brunette, mon ami. Come, we have much more to do before we can start working on this dream. Suivez-moi sil-vous-plait, we're going to the palace," he says, immediately walking away up floating cloud steps. I glance at Eames quickly before following.

"The palace?" I ask. My heart is still fluttering from what he'd said before, how I look better as me. Note to self: get rid of ridiculous crush on sleazy criminal colleague, even if he's got a body that just doesn't stop.

"The palace is a test we designed. It's meant to make sure you can handle the magnitude of the dream. I'll be with you the entire time," he says. He places a hand on the small of my back and goads me forward up the clouds. I smile as the land beneath us morphs from a treed forest into brightly coloured mushrooms and trees made of balloons. A miniature dolphin swims past us through the air, cackling in that cute way as it dives down into the forest. I feel like Alice in Wonderland, and as I make my way toward the palace test, I can't help but understand exactly how lost I could become in a place like this.


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three: The Palace Test

I close my eyes. I feel my body float away like those moments just before sleep. When I open them I'm standing in a dingy, damp room with dark grey brick walls and stacks of rotten straw lining the corners. I whirl around to see Eames, who's dressed in fine gleaming armor crafted from what looks like emerald. In his hand he carries a large broadsword. Looking down at myself I realize I'm in an elaborate ornate gown, beneath which is a simple tunic and greaves and sturdy boots. We must be in a dungeon. I make my way around the room and determine that the only exit is barred. I run my hand through my hair.

"I didn't think the dream could change us," I say. Eames starts to scout the room, rapping the hilt against different bricks.

"An adult dream can't, but in a child's dream you become a part of the world. Like right now, what do you suppose is happening?" he replies.

"Well, we're obviously in a dungeon. You're a knight, and I'm in a dress from an upper class but I've got peasant gear on underneath. We're in a dungeon, so we must have committed a crime. My guess is that we've been caught dressing up as courtiers and got tossed down here," I reply. There's a small window at the top of the room, the scant light illuminating the dingy corners. How the hell are we going to get out?

"Probably close. So your first task is to get us out of here, but remember that the more things you change, the more hostile the environment is going to become, and there are no guns here, so death is slow and painful," he says. I scan the room again. The window is barred, but I could probably get through it if the bars were gone. I close my eyes and wait until the thick weight of an old pitchfork appears in my hands. I place the tongs along the bars, then change the speed of the metal molecules until the fork is red-hot. Like I guessed, the bars heat up, glow and become malleable. I swing the fork until the bars have completely disintegrated, then I turn to Eames, who's grinning proudly.

"Well done. Now let's get out of here while we can," he says. We move toward the window and he holds out his hands to boost me up. I curl my knee and place it in his hands. A quick count to three and he boosts me up. I grab hold of the edges of the window and pull myself out, eyes burned by the light of the sun. In my time we've only been in the dungeon for a few minutes, but in the dream we must have been down there for days or more.

I turn back to the tiny window, noticing that we're on the exterior walls of a large medieval castle. I brace my feet against the overgrown grass and reach my hands in. Eames takes hold and I use my leverage to help pull him out of there. My heart beats, one, two, three, at the touch of our skin. As he emerges from the window his weight overpowers me and I fall backward, pulling him on top of me. He catches himself just in time but remains planted, his body hovered over mine for an instant. His breath mingles with mine, his eyes searching my face. I can't help but wonder what he's thinking. Can he feel the electricity surging through my body right now?

"So what's our next step?" I whisper. He shakes his head quickly and rolls to his back beside me. We stare at the sky, watching as the clouds slowly roll by. The rhythmic beat of drums and trilling of flutes waves over to us. I sit up and see an energetic market just outside the castle walls. There are bright balloons and men on impossibly high stilts and fire breathers. I tap Eames and point over to it.

"Looks like fun," he says. I pull off my dress, leaving me only in plain leather greaves and my tunic. My boots are sturdy, if scuffed and dirty. I look pointedly at Eames. He raises his eyebrows in question.

"You need to take off your armor," I say.

"I really don't think this is the right place-" he starts.

"-So that we blend in, Eames. What are you going to do if a robber starts beating somebody? People are going to expect knightly behavior from you, and I really don't think you're the gallant type," I say. He pouts his lips as if he's deeply offended, but awkwardly pulls off his armor until he's in dark brown breeches and a loose tunic similar to mine.

"Alright, brave leader. You've got me in my skivvies, where to next?"

The castle's market is teeming by the time we reach it, but we seem to blend in just fine with the rest of the peasants and the occasional courtier surrounded by tough looking guards. I take the time to examine the goods available at every stall. Ornate jewelry hand crafted in tin and silver, fine linens expertly sewn and chops of meat all mingle together. I have to admit, the details of the dream are perfect. I glance sideways at Eames.

"So you made this?" I ask. He nods, then inhales with the vacant look in his eyes that I've come to know means there's more.

"I designed most of it, yes, but the main puzzle was created by Florence," he says. He doesn't look at me when he says her name. It's like a shimmer of smoke floating from his lips, not meant to escape and yet lingering. _Florence_.

"Who is she?" I ask. I run my fingers along a row of chimes, the tinkling sound echoing through the market stall. The fat owner glares at me as if annoyed.

"She's someone from the past, that's all. At one time I thought we could be lovers, but she's complicated. Insane. Partly her madness makes her a brilliant architect, but the worlds she creates are too enticing, too intricate and detailed. One begins to get lost," he replies. My inner photograph of her becomes more detailed and more confusing at the same time. I examine the dream again, note the indigo glow of the sky and the patterns of stars much different than those of the real world. There needs to be a clue somewhere. There's always a clue.

We navigate through fire breathers and side show attractions like miniature dragons and bearded women. Eames managed to lift a few coins from an unexpecting courtier and tosses it down on two mugs of ale. He hands me the carafe and when I take a sip, I'm surprised to find it tastes like sweet rose water. A nice touch. Then I see it. I tug on Eame's arm and gesture toward a small dark tent with a wooden sign carved with the image of a glass ball and two hands. A fortune teller. I quickly sip back my drink as we make our way over, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste of high quantity alcohol.

"Don't you know all of this already?" I ask before we enter. Eames shakes his head no as he finishes his own drink. I don't know if his body is as fuzzy as mine already, but he offers the same disgusted look as he downs the bottom.

"I know only the basics. The test is for you to figure out, not me. Much of this is your own subconscious, remember. It might be a child's dream in essence, but it's your mind, love," he replies.

"If it's my test, how come you're with me?" I ask. He glances sideways at me with the smallest of smiles.

"I won't have you getting lost down here. Now we should keep moving. Our bodies upstairs aren't going to stay unconscious forever," he says. I nod and decide to let my instinct take over for the rest of the test. I push myself through the beaded curtains of the little tent, coming face to face with a middle-aged gypsy woman seated at the opposite side of a round table. There are odd curios around the room, shrunken heads, paintings of the occult, and the smoke of incense slithering through the air. She gestures for me to take a seat, and for the first time in the test, I'm alone.

"You wish to have your fortune read, child?" she asks with a thick Romanian accent. I take the chair across from her, cursing my mind for being so stereotypical. The woman takes a deep breath and her eyes become heavy, fluttering slightly.

"You were right in coming to Madame, child. Your path is not yet set, and if it doesn't become so, you will be lost," she says. She pulls out a deck of long cards similar to the tarot cards my hippie friends used to lug around in high school, only the names and drawings on these are different. They're hand-made with names like _The Lost Boys_ and _The Ship at Dawn_. She lays them face-down on the table after shuffling through them and gestures for me to choose one. I close my eyes and let my fingers choose the first card that feels right. She flips it and hums softly to herself. On the card is a drawing of a tea cup, the tea inside twirling and the leftover leaves meeting in the middle. At the top is says _Centrifuge_.

"Interesting. Child, you are lost, no?" she asks.

"I guess so," I reply, "I couldn't say that I know exactly what I'm doing." She nods briefly before running her hands along the card, eyes closed and humming.

"I see so much in you, my dear. You're very bright, but sometimes you take everything too seriously. You need to relax from time to time. You cannot find a way because you do not know where you're going, but you don't look around you. _You must look for the signs_. If not, you will be lost forever. What I see for you are choices, some big, some small. The choice between wisdom and wealth, the choice between reality and the dreams we so wish were real, and your biggest choice in the long run: Whether to listen to your head or your heart. The last one will be your toughest choice. I will guide you to where you need to go, but first I must ask you, is there a man?" she says. I sigh deeply before replying, hoping to hell that Eames can't hear.

"There might be, but I'm not sure if it's anything or just nothing," I say vaguely. The fortune teller smiles as if she already knows all of my secrets. Maybe she does.

"Your final choice, then. I see it clearly. It will not be easy, but you will know when it's right. You chose the card of Centrifuge, that opposites attract, that those who belong together will be pushed together even if the outside world is trying to tear them apart. Now, what you seek lies in the meadows to the west of the castle. You will see a sign," she finishes. She lifts her eyelids back open and comes out of her trance, then she points to her tip bucket for my fare. I reach into my pocket to find one lowly coin. Embarrassed, I flick it into the jar. I don't know why I care so much, being that I know she's just a projection.

On my way out of the tent I think about what she sad. Not just about the signs to come but about myself as well. Mal's voice creeps into my head. "_Have you ever been a lover? One half of a whole?_" I leave the tent to find Eames at a table across the way placing forged coins on a game of roulette. I study him, the way his wry grin spreads across his lips as he places his bet, the brief view of one of his tattoos under his thin tunic. Mostly I think of how passionate he is about everything he does, and that passion excites me, makes me want to spend more time with him, go on adventures and live the high torque lifestyle I've always dreamed of. Head vs. Heart. But I know we're running out of time so I drag him from the table, nearly giggling as he struggles to pocket the coins he'll never be able to use again.

"I was on a roll, you know," he complains. I pat him on the back gently.

"Save your skills for upstairs," I say, "I've got a lead for our next location."


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four: The First Choice 

Choice. I guess life is just a constant web of choices. Whether or not to wake up, how to dress, where to work, who to love. Right now I've got to find out not only what choice to make, but what exactly I need to decide. With Eames in tow, I search about the market, knowing deep within that in order to complete the test, I need to complete a task, one previously unfinished. I turn my gaze toward the looming castle, so dark in contrast with the bright market festival.

"We need to get back in," I say. Eames looks at me sceptically.

"And how do you propose we do that, love?" he asks. He's right. Guards are stationed at the gate, stoically eyeing everyone that passes. I think of the beginning of the test, and of the old fortune teller. We'd been dressed as wealthy courtiers and obviously been caught. Her words ring through my mind. _Wisdom vs. Wealth_. We'd tried wealth and that hadn't worked. Now we needed to try something else.

"We forge," I say as if a light's been flicked on in my mind. I take his arm and drag him into a tight, private corner between two tents. We stand close and I can feel his breath on me. "We need to get into that castle. Who else is allowed in a castle besides royalty? Shit, I wish I'd paid more attention in Medieval Studies," I whisper. I close my eyes to concentrate, and suddenly Eames's arms are around me and he tilts my head up to kiss him. I want to protest but his lips are so soft I can't help but melt into him.

"What's going on in there?" shouts a burly voice. We separate and I see there's a guard looking in. Immediately he blushes. "Sorry. Carry on," he says before marching off. Eames grins that boyish smile and I feel like punching him and maybe myself as well. For a moment I thought it was real.

"Sorry about that, but I don't want to get stuck in that dungeon again," he says. My heart sinks. Did he not feel it too? I try to read his face but am reminded of the task at hand.

"Scholars," I blurt. He raises an eyebrow. "We need to be scholars or something to get into the castle. We could be from anywhere, so no one will question our validity. Quick, let's change while we still have the chance," I say. I close my eyes again, focussing on what I need to forge into when I feel Eames tilt my face up again. I open my eyes, looking into his, bright blue, as he pulls me in for one soft, sweet kiss.

"The first was for our safety, but that one. That one was for me," he whispers.

We leave the alley after having carefully forged ourselves into scholars. That is, Eames wears a long robe and is heavily bearded; I had to force him to remove the stars from his outfit.

"This isn't _Fantasia_," I mutter as we trudge toward the castle.

"But I'm a wizard," he protests.

"You're a scholar. You can't do magic," I reply. I've dressed myself in a simple dress, letting my hair out long and adding many charms about my wrist and neck.

"Maybe I can," he says. I stop just before the main gate, frowning in contemplation. If we can forge ourselves, what's to say we can't forge the rest of our environment?

"Try it," I say quickly, voice hushed. He raises an eyebrow.

"Try what?" he replies. I roll my eye and motion to his pocket where his hands are jingling a few coins together.

"Forge those into something else, like magic," I instruct. He grins boyishly and pulls out of his pocket not coins, but a single violet lily with shimmering petals. He holds it out to me, and I can't help but gape in wonder.

"Is it magical enough for you?" he asks. I only nod, forging it onto my dress like a pendant. I return my gaze to the castle gates. It's guarded by two burly men, both heavily armoured in ornate metal suits.

"Well, let's give it a shot," I say finally. I let Eames walk slightly in front of me and hold myself timidly as if I'm his trainee. I guess that's true anyway, pending I pass the test. We approach the gate and the largest guard, whose armour is a spotless ebony, calls us to halt.

"Your business?" he asks. His face is barely visible beneath his helmet and he holds a large broadsword at his side.

"We come from the north. We are magicians looking to pay homage to our King," I say. The guard sneers at me and turns his attention to the bearded Eames.

"You let her do everything, or just your introductions?" he says. I try not to swallow, hoping I haven't given away our cover. Thankfully Eames saves us.

"Well, now. I won't be around forever. No sense in her having no skill at all. I'm afraid I'm a tad ill and would like to pay my last respects to the monarchy. If you'd be so kind," he says. His voice has changed to that of a sickly elderly man with an air or authority. The guard scans our faces once more, then reluctantly moves aside.

"Good luck in your travels, old wizard," he says gruffly as we pass. Beyond the first gate and the cobblestone bridge we find a single pathway lined with torches, and of course, guards every step of the way. We quietly pass them and head toward the large wooden doors that lead to the interior castle.

Two guards by the door, also adorned in black, stop us as we reach the final steps.

"Be warned before entering. You cannot return to this place once you cross this threshold. Once inside you may only leave the castle or be trapped forever inside. Do you understand?" one says. Meaning, if I fail right now I can go back to my physical body, but once in the castle, if I lose, I lose everything. But I never was one for backing down. So I nod.

"Yes," I reply. The guards step back and the doors unfold. I hold my breath as I cross the threshold of what may be my final resting place.

Of all of the things I've seen in my life, in dreams, in the world, I will never forget what I see once I step inside.


	6. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

*A/N: Thanks everyone for reading, and sorry for the cliffhanger on the last chapter, whoops, look forward to more! ;)*

The door closes, and this dream I've been having doesn't feel like a dream anymore. The colours are too vivid, the scents lingering too harmoniously. If I had to be lost forever, well fuck, this would be where. Before me is an ever stretching meadow, the rolling grass sprouting up every kind of flower I've ever seen. The trees are lithe and spill out waves of white petals. The floral scent fills my nostrils and I can't help but sigh deeply. I've never seen a sky so bright, with perfect little clouds rolling gently across it. I turn to Eames and see his face lit up, much as I imagine mine is. I know I should be thinking of how to get out of here, but for now, just for a little while, I want to enjoy this.

"Come on!" I shout. I take Eames's hand and run into the meadow until we're surrounded by wildflowers, the floating petals settling into a circle around us. We frolic and laugh and fall to the ground beside each other, looking up at the sky. The sun fades until the sky is lit up into a thousand hues of pink and orange and purple. The clouds take shape into familiar figures, first animals like elephants and tigers, then into elaborate stories, tales of monumental men and woman, stories of war, stories of love. Time seems to pass both in slow motion and faster than ever. I realize that I'm dressed in a simple white muslin dress and Eames in a plain white t-shirt and loose slacks. We're both bare-foot.

"What is this place?" I ask finally. My voice comes out in the barest of whispers. Eames takes my hand gently, his thumb rubbing across my palm. I almost gasp from how good it feels.

"I don't know," he whispers back, "but it's amazing." He continues to rub his thumb along my hand and I exhale deeply. The night sky has come out now, the stars peering onto us, our only witnesses. I reach my other arm over and drag my fingers down his arm, and sensing his shiver, move my hand from his neck down to his chest. "You're driving me crazy," he says. I smile and roll onto my side, my hair sprawled out under me. His eyes are closed, so peaceful as I stroke his skin ever so gently.

"I could stay like this, forever, I think, but it's not real," I say finally. He nods, swallows, opens his eyes. He takes hold of my body and pulls me on top of him, rubbing his lips along my neck, exhaling into my ears. I shiver and gasp in pleasure.

"I wish it was," he says. He rolls me over again so he's above me. I run my hands along his sides and chest, feeling the hard sweep of his muscles. I slip my fingers below his shirt, and even the feel of his skin sends vibrations through me. He takes my face in his hands and pulls my lips to his. It's like a train running through me, like every sensation he's ever had is being spilled into me, and me into him. He kisses me roughly, not bothering to be gentle and I push back, wanting more. He scoops me up in one motion so we're sitting, me straddling him, feeling him. I whimper as he runs his lips down my collar bone, as I thread my fingers through his hair.

Then I see him. The little boy, the one we're supposed to be helping. Zachary. He stands beneath a tree, beckoning to me, then fades like the stars at dawn. I kiss Eames once more, deeply, then push myself away. It takes effort. He looks at my quizzically.

"I would stay here with you forever, but we can't. We still have a job to do," I say. My voice is filled with pain, with regret, but Eames nods. We separate from each other physically, but it's as though I'm still there, his lips still on mine, and we stand. I lead him toward the tree where I'd seen the boy, and as we reach it, the tree begins to glow. A harsh wind blows from within, blowing my hair and dress behind me like a flag. Then a voice sounds.

"Have you made your choice?" it asks. I nod, Eames nods, but we keep our hands together. The void within the tree sucks us in like a vacuum, and I'm forced to say goodbye to the paradise field where everything was so perfect. As the light envelopes us and I feel my return to my physical body, I hear one more voice, just a whisper, but I hear it.

_Nothing will ever be the same_.

Imagine your arm is asleep. You wake up and there's no feeling, you can hit it and pinch it, but the nerves aren't yet registering. Then comes the tingling, the pins and needles, annoyingly painful. Imagine that throughout your entire body and you'll feel what I feel every time I awaken from a PASIV dream. My eyes open to find T releasing Eames and myself from the machine.

"You passed the test," he says cheerfully, but his eyes show something else, like he's concerned.

"How long?" I ask. The windows are open, showing the rich swirls of dusk.

"Seven hours," T replies. I look to Eames for some sort of reaction, but his face is stoic as he awakens. Does he remember as clearly as I do? What happened to us in there, and what will never be the same? I can't help but wonder if my questions will ever be answered.

"How is that possible?" I ask. I sit up quickly, trying to ignore the hypertension, my vision fading from blackness and back into focus.

"It's just the way the test is run. You can't awaken until you pass or fail. How was she, my dear friend?" T asks Eames. Eames blinks his eyes a few times before replying.

"She did well. I think she'll do fine with the maze," he replies. He doesn't look at me. God, why is my heart breaking? I gaze at my watch, realizing it's after dinner and I haven't yet eaten. I'm about to suggest something when Eames gets up quickly, removes himself from the PASIV machine and puts on his jacket.

"Everything alright?" T asks. He nods quickly.

"I'm spent for the day, think it's time to get some rest for a bit. I'll see you lot tomorrow," he says, then briskly walks out of the room. I hold my face firmly, trying to hide my confusion. I yawn, but it's noticeably forced. T places his hands in his pockets awkwardly.

"You were in there for a long time. Did it all run smoothly?" he asks me. I nod, brushing him off.

"Everything's fine," I say. We're caught in an awkward silence. This is my first time alone with T, and even though we've had dinner and drinks, I feel like there is no conversation between us without the aid of supplementary people. What can I say to a man I don't really know? Thankfully Arthur comes in, eyebrows raised at the silence. I smile widely as he enters. There's just something so inviting about him this moment that's so comforting. Maybe it's his consistency, maybe it's that he's saving me from an uncomfortable situation, I don't know.

"How'd it go?" he asks. T returns to the equipment, collecting it and putting it away.

"Well. Our lovely belle has learned a lot about the dream world today, I only think it fair she has some time to relax, hmm?" he says. Arthur smiles lightly and turns his attention to me.

"I was just about to invite you out for dinner," he says expectantly. The growl of my stomach gives me away and I try to chuckle away my embarrassment.

"Yeah, I'm starving," I say. I look toward T, but he's got his back to us. Arthur gestures toward the door. I guess it's going to be just us. Even though I know it's kind of a date, I'm relieved as I follow him through the warehouse.

_Because I don't know what I felt in there, and I don't know what he felt in there, but he left, and I need something to distract me from the slow, dull ache I feel inside._

Dinner turns out to be another swanky affair requiring a decent looking dress and a string of pearls around my neck. Arthur has us seated by the window, and I can't help but watch the people strolling down the street, seeming so carefree and fou as the sun fades.

"Another glass?" Arthur asks, interrupting the mill of thoughts streaming through my mind. I smile and nod, watching the deep red of merlot streak into the glass. As usual, Arthur's hair is slicked back, but his face is pulled into a slight grin.

"What?" I ask, self-conscious. I pull a strand of hair behind my ear.

"It's just that you're always so quiet. I'm always wondering what's going through your mind when you sit like that," he says. I blush.

"Just thoughts, that's all. Nothing important or profound, just a constant wave of things, I guess," I reply. His smile widens.

"Too modest. You don't even know what you do to me," he says. The last part's quiet, and his eyes widen as if he hadn't meant to let it slip. I decide to ignore it, biting my lip awkwardly.

"I don't think it's important what goes in my head. I think it's more important what happens in the real world," I say. He nods.

"It's a good thing to always keep in mind. When you've been doing it for awhile, you can lose it quickly. I've seen people lose reality after one job. That's the thing about dreams, I guess. So much more is possible," he says. I will myself not to think about the meadow, about places where anything is possible. About Eames.

"What about you?" I ask instead. This time I get a real smile out of him, dimples and all. It's almost infectious.

"Dreams are enticing, I'll admit it, but I've always been pretty grounded. I like reality. It's reliable. It's constant, but it can still surprise you. I like that," he replies, "but enough about dreams. We haven't really had time to catch up. How have you been?" he asks. I take a moment before answering.

"For awhile it was good. I started working on my Masters which kept me busy studying. I was always busy, but I don't know, I felt like there was something missing, you know? Then you showed up at my door at five am, and here we are," I say. He tries to catch his smile but I don't miss it. I can't help but wonder if he's thinking that he can fill that void. Can he?

"I know what you mean. I tried to kick it for awhile, cold turkey, but I had to go back, just couldn't stay away. Then this job came up and I couldn't help but think of you. It's a weird sort of addiction, isn't it? Dreams. Sometimes I can't think of words to describe it," he says. His eyes take on that far off look, like he's recalling old memories, taking them out of their dusty boxes and trying them on again.

"Sometimes there are no words," I reply. I take a sip of my wine, savouring the lush French notes. "What about Cobb? How's he been?" I ask. Arthur winces a little at the mention of our colleague's name.

"Not too well, actually. I haven't seen him since I came back to Europe, but the last time I was at his place he seemed… I don't know, distant maybe. Like he still couldn't believe that everything was real. To be honest it seems like he's losing it. It happens to all of us, eventually," he says, "the dream becomes more real to us than our lives day to day. We can't help but question it. You've never questioned what's real, even before the inception?"

I wish I could answer this with decided philosophical flair, as if I'm well-read in Kierkegaard, Nietzsche and Dostoyevsky and have thought this question through to decisive indecision. But I can't, because the question has come to haunt me.

"I try not to think about it," I reply finally. Arthur doesn't elaborate, and I'm glad for it.

"So how was _the test_?" he asks instead, not even trying to hide the roll of his eyes.

"It was challenging, actually," I reply. He just smiles smugly, as if he's seen everything there is to see. Maybe he has, it's not like I'm an expert, but something about his gaze rubs me. Condescension.

"I'm sure T and Eames loved sending you through their little maze," he responds. I wipe my mouth with my napkin, ensuring there's nothing dripping from my mouth.

"Arthur, I like you, but I don't understand what your issue is with them, especially since they're your team-mates. Please, enlighten me, because to me, though pompous and arrogant, they seem like alright people," I say. I speak firmly and keep my eyes on my plate. He stares off for a minute, then gives me an almost hopeless look, like a lost puppy.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be so negative. I just worry about you, I guess. After what happened with Florence, I worry about them, too. They've just experimented a lot in the dream world, which leads you down a bad path and I can't stand to see someone else go down it," he says. His comment stops me dead.

"What happened with Florence?" I ask, trying to seem casual, nonchalant. Arthur raises his eyebrows.

"Eames didn't tell you?" I shake my head, questioning everything. When he'd said it was a story for another time, I'd assumed it was because of a broken heart. But what if it was really from a guilty conscience?

"Well, go on, tell me," I say insistently. Arthur sighs deeply.

"You didn't hear this from me, but on a big job a few years ago, doing the same kind of work we're doing now, something happened to Florence. And she was, well, she was brilliant, understand, but one day she disconnected from the PASIV and there was something missing. She went crazy, started destroying everything. It was like she'd left a part of herself in the dream," he says. My heart is beating almost wildly, remembering T and Eames's hushed French earlier.

_She's here. She wants to see you_.

"What happened to her?" I ask. Arthur shrugs and takes a sip of his wine.

"I don't know. I guess she was institutionalized or something. She nearly killed both of them. But I don't want to spread around gossip, Ari, I just want you to be careful. This kind of work is always dangerous, but this job, it's different. I couldn't live knowing I'd put you in serious danger," he says. I smile and lightly brush his hand. The feeling I get from his touch is different, softer, more caring.

"It's all going to be fine," I say. He smiled back, then pulls away as his phone begins vibrating. He answers it, then his face blanches and loud noises echo from the phone.

"I'll be right there," he says, then looks to me. "I'm sorry to have to cut this short, and I really do mean that, but there's a bit of an emergency. Just go home, lock your doors, and we'll see you in the morning, okay?" He throws a few bills on the table and rushes out of the restaurant, leaving me speechless and alone while crowds of people eat and carry on around me.

When I get home, the first thing I notice is that my door has been jammed open. I slowly swing open the door and find my apartment in ruins. All of my books ripped to shreds, my pictures smashed, my knick-knacks and curios strewn about the room. The only room left in alright condition is the bathroom, but when I enter, my blood runs cold.

Written on the mirror in what looks like lipstick but could very well be blood are the words:

_He is mine._

**Hope you enjoy! 3!**


	7. Chapter Six

Chapter Six-When the Past Comes Back to Haunt

**A/N** Sorry about the delay on this one, loveys! The holidays are a time sucker. Please enjoy, and I'll try to keep updating as much as possible. Xox.**

Immediately I dial Arthur's number, not even thinking about calling the police. When he answers his voice is strained.

"Can you come over? I think someone broke into my apartment," I say timidly.

"I'll be right there," he says before hanging up. I do a quick search through the place with a broom in hand, checking all of the little nooks and crannies to make sure the intruder isn't still lingering. Once my search turns up with nothing, I turn on all of the lights and sit in the corner of my living room until Arthur arrives, trying desperately not to think about the disturbing message on my mirror.

He doesn't knock, so when the door flies open I'm ready with broom in hand to clobber him over the head.

"Whoa, whoa, Ari, it's just me," he says quickly. I exhale and drop the broom before I finish winding up, then hold my arms out as if to demonstrate the chaos that is my apartment. "Are you okay?" he asks, pulling me in for a quick embrace. I let him hold me a moment, just a moment before pushing him away, trying to keep the tears from spilling.

"I'm fine, I just don't understand why anyone would do this. I'm scared," I reply. He doesn't speak as he surveys the room, sighing deeply when he reaches the bathroom and sees the message.

"I think you should come to the warehouse," he says. I shake him off.

"No, I can get a hotel, that's not a problem," I reply. He grabs me firmly by the shoulders, forcing me to look him in the face. The gesture seems almost aggressive, but his eyes only appear concerned.

"I think you should come to the warehouse," he repeats, then looks around again, "I'm pretty sure I know who did this. I think it's about time that you met Florence."

The cab ride to the warehouse is silent as I'm swept away by my own thoughts. I don't even think about asking anymore questions. I'm sure they'll be answered when we reach the warehouse, where Florence is. But the lingering question in my mind, is the reason she'd destroy my apartment. She doesn't know me, I don't know her. The only connection we have is sharing the same colleagues. And then there's the message. _He is mine_. I can only imagine that _He_ is either T or Eames, neither of which I have a real relationship with, or even a pretend one, it seems.

We reach the warehouse and I feel my heart beating faster as we approach the doors. I don't really know what I'm expecting to wait for me inside. The worst part of my mind pictures a gorgeous Amazonian woman having cocktails with the gang and laughing as if her vandalism was a little practical joke. Instead when we enter the main room, Florence is nowhere to be seen. Eames, Yusuf and T sit around the small meal table with solemn looks on their faces. I sit with them timidly, happy when T offers me a drink like he knows how much I need one.

"How was it?" Eames asks. Arthur responds before I have a chance.

"Trashed. Blood everywhere. Where is she now?" he says. T gestures toward the back, where there are a few rooms with designated bunks. Arthur nods and takes a seat with us, but shakes his head when he's offered a glass of wine.

"So, what are we to do?" T ponders. I set my drink on the table with an audible clank, blushing only slightly when they all focus on me.

"Can I possibly be informed on what the hell is going on and why my apartment was ransacked?" I ask, trying to keep my temper from boiling over. I'm sick of being skirted by men who forget that I'm even here. Eames sighs deeply, then stands and reaches for my hand.

"Come with me," he says as I take it, though he still doesn't look at me.

"Are you sure?" T interjects, but Eames turns back and shoots him a glare.

"She has a right to know everything," he states, then leads me toward the backrooms. Before we reach the last room, he stops me, finally looking at me for the first time since the test. His eyes are a determined blue, but sadness lines them, like I've never seen before.

"She's not well, and I'm sorry. You should never have had to be involved in any of this, and for that I take the blame," he says. Before I can say anything he swings open the door to the room and we slowly enter.

"Ren, it's just me," he says. Instead of the supermodel my mind had been creating, the girl I see curled up on the bed is slight and tiny, with matted blond hair and bandages covering up most of her arms. She leans up, her eyes saucer-wide and swollen from tears. She looks like a tiny bird, one you just want to fold up into your arms. She stares at me as I stand awkwardly behind Eames. I can't tell if her expression is vengeful or just curious. I thought I would be angry or horrified in meeting her, but instead it makes me sad. I wonder who this girl is, and who she was before being overturned by madness. Maybe she was always mad.

"I ruined your apartment," she says to me. I can't tell whether or not she's apologizing. She sits up fully, and dressed only in a tank top and a baggy pair of boxer shorts- probably Arthur's, I'm guessing, as he's the smallest. "I didn't mean to do it," she finishes. Her voice is soft and timid, and as she shifts I can see more bandages covering scrapes on her legs. On some the blood is already beginning to seep through the gauze.

"Are you alright?" I ask, gesturing toward her injuries. She looks down at herself, almost as if she's noticing the cuts for the first time. Eames approaches her and gently covers her with a thin white sheet. The way he looks at her- it's the soft and careful gaze of a protective brother. She looks at him like he is her own personal deity.

"Ren, you should probably explain yourself to Ariadne," he says to her simply. To my surprise her expression warps, she glares at him and rips the sheet away from her.

"Don't speak to me like I'm a child," she snaps. Eames backs away from her, and I follow suit, taking just a step backward. She turns her gaze to me, this time a crooked smile glazing her face. "Ariadne. Ariadne. Ariadne. What kind of a name is that anyway? Is it supposed to be symbolic? Goddess of the labyrinth? You're a clever girl, but not clever enough. I see right through you. I can see your wants, your desires. You might think you can create great dreams, but you're nothing compared to me. Do you hear that? You're nothing!" she shouts. Tears stream down her face, and I can't even begin to determine the emotions pummelling through me.

"Fuck, well this is splendid. I'm sorry Ariadne, this isn't any of your fault," Eames says. Florence grips his arm as he moves toward me.

"Don't apologize to her. This _is_ her fault, she shouldn't have tried to come between us in the first place. She doesn't understand," she hisses. Eames sighs and struggles not to roll his eyes. He twists his arm from her grip.

"There is no us, Ren. There is no us. You need to accept that if you're ever going to get better," he says. The girl laughs, her eyes switching back and forth from Eames and again to myself.

"You took her to the palace. You took her to the fucking _palace_, Eames! You don't even know what that means, do you?" she says. Her smile diminishes and is quickly replaced by profound sadness. "You never knew. I didn't create the palace to be used as a test. I made it for you. For us. But you never came with me, and now you've taken her, well, that's it then," she says. Eames just stares at her in contemplation. I take a step forward.

"Okay, Florence? Eames and I, we're just colleagues, and we're working on a really high profile case right now. I don't really know what you're going through right now, but I need you to understand that I have no intention of coming between you and Eames or being taken to the palace or any of that," I say, trying to sound as calm as possible. The girl whips the sheet off her and onto the floor, ignoring the spots of blood that now splotch onto the bed.

"It doesn't matter what your intentions were or are, Ariadne. There's no going back now. You'll see what I mean. It might take hours or days, or maybe it's already begun, but you'll see it. You'll _feel_ it, and nothing I do or you do can ever change it. You tell me you don't understand what I'm going through. And you don't. You have no idea what I've been through, but you will," she says. Eames runs his hands through his hair, eyes wide. I try to send a telepathic message to him to make this whole situation easier to understand.

"Alright, this is madness," he says. He swoops down and lifts the girl into his arms, ignoring her screams and fits and bites. "You're off to the hospital, then. I have only so much patience and you are bordering on the threshold. Calm down now, or you're going to open your wounds again. Fuck sakes," he finishes. I step back as he carries her from the room and take a moment to myself before following them back to the main room. I can't stop thinking of the palace, of the meadow where everything was amazing and even the slightest touch from Eames was enough to make me shiver. The faint whisper as we left intrudes my head, _Nothing will ever be the same_. Florence's shrieks haunt me from the hallway as I make my way back to the others.

"You did this to me! It could have been us, forever! You have no idea what you've done!"

When I reach the table, Eames and Florence are already outside, and the rest of the team sits in awkward silence around the table. I notice even Arthur has a drink in his hand now. He looks up at me when he sees me.

"You okay?" he asks. I nod and sit down, my head spinning so fast I don't really know anything right now.

"Where's he taking her?" I ask, taking a swig of my wine.

"The nearest hospital. They'll treat her wounds and keep her on a 72 hour lockdown. We've already called to make sure there's a bed for her," Yusuf replies. Arthur places his hand gently on my shoulder.

"I've got to get up early for some meetings. You'll be alright here?" he asks. I nod, knowing I can't face my apartment again tonight. Yusuf follows suit, nodding his goodnight and leaving me alone with T, whose usually cheerful face is lined with fatigue.

"You knew she was in town," I state, remembering an earlier conversation he and Eames had had. He nods, rubbing his fingers along his temples.

"I tried to help her see reason. She has been out of treatment for a year or so now and doing well on her own, but she insisted on seeing him. She was in the shop when we were under. She saw you and Eames linked up, and I guess it triggered something in her. _Merde_," he swore, "she came in here all covered in blood, switching between quiet depression and manic anger. We didn't know what to do," he continues.

"She needs medical attention. She kept going on about the palace test and how we didn't know what we'd started. I don't know where she's getting it, Eames didn't even say a word to me after the test was over," I state. T's eyes focus on the ground and his fingers tap the table nervously. "You know something," I say. He sighs.

"I don't know anything, but I know Ren, I know her madness. It's heartbreaking for me to see her like this. She was my wife before, you know," he says. My eyes narrow.

"No, I didn't. If she's your ex, then why is Eames the one taking her to the hospital? Why does she love him?" I ask. He shakes his head, and for a moment it looks as though he's about to cry, but he sniffles deeply and flicks his fingers, as if to throw away his memories of the past.

"She was so brilliant, _chere_, the things she could create in the dreamspace were not just monumental, they were groundbreaking. She was like a computer programmer, creating worlds where the dreamer was changed. Before everything happened, we were working on inception. We were so close, but Ren wouldn't settle for anything less than perfect. She worked day and night, she spent more time in the dreamspace than she did in the real world. She was working on a new program involving shared consciousness, and one day, she came out wrong," he says.

"Wrong?" I repeat. He nods.

"She... well she didn't remember anything. She was by herself in the dream, so no one knows what happened. She just came out, forgot about our love, and would only go by Ren, instead of Florence. She developed an infatuation with my dear friend Eames. It was difficult for him. It was difficult for me. Eventually it all went too far and we knew it was time to get her professional help. She was institutionalized immediately. Even now that she's out, she refuses to acknowledge me. Eames is the only one who can get even a semblance of sanity out of her, and as you've seen, even that is difficult to deal with," he says. I reach out and pat his hand gently.

"Thank you for sharing that with me. It must be hard," I say. He nods, finishes his wine in a quick, and wipes his sadness from his face.

"Alas, _ma Cherie_, we must move on. It saddens me that I might never see my Florence again, but there is no going back, even if I could I don't know if things would be any different," he replies. No going back. My mind is jolted back to her words about the palace.

"And the test?" I goad. He rubs his face and looks me seriously in the eye.

"Alright, now this is just speculation, you understand? But I believe the palace test was a part of her shared consciousness program. It is possible that when two enter the test, their subconscious are... tied together, if that makes any sense. Linked, that's a better word. So, if my line of thinking is correct, then you and Eames may well share a link together even beyond the dream," he says. He speaks as if it's all so simple.

"What?" I can only reply.

"Please don't mention this to Eames. Honestly, I don't know if it's true, that's just my guess. If it is true, you'll know soon enough," he replies. Ugh. How infuriating. Wait and see is not a good attitude for me to try to emulate. I look at the clock, realizing it's way too late for my brain to be active. I pat T's shoulder as I walk by to one of the bunkers. Hopefully after some sleep this will all seem less confusing.

I wake up before dawn to the sound of my room door swinging open. Groggy, it takes my brain a few moments to recognize Eames carefully shutting the door behind him and whispering my name.

"Ari, are you awake?" –He called me Ari-.

"Yeah," I whisper, trying to sit up. He sits at the edge of my bed, his hands wringing together. Even in the darkness I can see the stress lining his face. I sit up and begin to rub his shoulders, the energy pulsing between our skin palpable. Am I dreaming? He turns toward me and rubs his hand down my hairline, and my breath is caught in my chest. For the first time I'm not sure if I even want to test my totem to see if this is real or not.

"Ari, what is this?" he whispers, his breath hot on my skin. I can't help but run my fingers through his hair, relishing the small moan that escapes from his mouth.

"I don't know," I reply. He pulls me closer and I exhale deeply as our faces hover inches from each other's. God it feels so good, too good, too good to be true.

"When you told Ren we were just colleagues it split me in two," he says.

"When you left after the test without looking at me-" He interrupts me by placing his lips on mine, and I kiss back ferociously, electricity sparking through me as his hands scramble along my back. He pulls himself on top of me, but as our lips break, his face changes, and he moves back to the end of my bed.

"It's not real, is it?" he says. This is my heart splintering.

"I don't know," I say again. He looks at me, his eyes tortured and forlorn. "I think I want it to be real," I continue. He purses his lips together, rubbing his hand along my calf.

"I just can't shake the idea that the palace was Ren's last effort to make me love her. I don't want to follow something that isn't real. You don't deserve that, and it's killing me to have to do this," he says, trailing off.

"Do what?" I ask. He kisses me once, softly, on the cheek.

"I can't do this, not unless I know it's real. Forgive me, Ariadne," he says. He gets up from my bed and walks out the door, shutting it quietly but firmly behind him. I press my hand to my lips, feeling the remaining tingle of his touch, hoping that this is just a dream, but knowing deep down that he's walked away from me.

I stay up for an hour, waiting, but he doesn't come back.


	8. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven- Colleagues We Must Be

"From the data compiled thus far, we can infer these things: One, that Zachary Jones was present and conscious during the murder. His and other witness testimonies show that he woke up in the middle of the night after hearing his mother screaming, then he rushed to the bedroom, and his memory is blank until he is alone with his dead mother on the floor." I cringe at the gruesome image passing through my head. We're in the meeting room and Arthur has the floor. The room is dark as he passes images onto a long projection screen with the click of a button. The first image is of the family: young Zachary, the ominous and well-known face of Waylon, and his wife, a strong chinned, handsome woman with raven hair and kind brown eyes. It's all so sad.

I sit next to T, who's become my main trainer since Eames and I decided to keep our contact to a minimum. My heart stings even as I catch a glimpse of him across the room. He listens intently, but his eyes are far away, lost in the pensive mess he's been in since Ren's visit. She hasn't returned, even though the hospital let her out once they were sure she would harm no one and was in proper psychiatric care. I still haven't returned to my apartment. Instead, T took me shopping (in elaborate French style), and introduced me to the world of business-chic fashion. Arthur changes his slides and continues,

"Second, Zachary is an incredibly imaginative child. He often plays by himself and creates characters and worlds for his own enjoyment. This can be helpful, but also harmful, as the dream has the possibility to overload. Ariadne, it will be your job to cater to his interests. He's a typical boy and likes space and cowboys and knights. An in-depth report of his play habits, interests and other information is in this report." He hands me a manila envelope with a report that has to be at least forty pages thick. Looks like I have more homework.

"Third, we'll have a total of twelve hours to conduct the job. Waylon is picking Zachary up at ten in the morning, and he's never late. This means we need to be in and out with no disturbance and no lingering evidence on the mark. Yusuf, how are your compounds coming?" he asks. Yusuf grins like a kid in a candy store.

"My main subject has been reacting very well. The compound works instantly, is quite stable, and within 15 minutes of waking shows no sign of the drug in toxicology reports," he says. T rustles beside me, a grin growing on his face.

"And how is your main subject, Yusuf? Have you grown the balls to ask her out yet?" he says. I snort uncontrollably as Yusuf blushes.

"I don't know what you're referring to," he answers. To this, everyone in the room smiles. His "main subject" has become his only subject, a pretty girl who comes into the lab at least three times a week. It's easy to see that the two are developing a relationship, at least on our side. Yusuf has been almost stoic about their time together, only letting out an unwelcome grin when he speaks of it.

"Okay, perfect, thank you Yusuf," Arthur says loudly. He takes a seat and my heart pounds as Eames stands up, brushing off his pants. He makes it a point to meet each of us with his eyes. Is it just me, or does he linger on mine a little longer? He clears his throat.

"We've created a database of possible forges to use during the run. Some are familiar figures, relatives, etc. Others will cater more to the imagination; popular cartoon characters and heroes of literature. As Arthur failed to mention, the child is quite well read and intelligent," he says. Arthur rolls his eyes as Eames chuckles slightly, "At any rate, this means we need to work diligently to ensure that the logical part of his mind doesn't step in. We don't want a lucid child dreamer." He flips the projector through a variety of slides, each showing a popular character—from the genie from Aladdin through to Oliver Twist.

"As you can well imagine, we'll need to work a bit harder for these characters, however with three forgers present, I'm sure we'll be able to work it out," he finishes. He runs through the last side and takes his seat. It's my turn now to get up and go over some of the dreamspace layouts I've been working on, when a distinct throat clearing sounds from across the room. We all turn to see Cobb, wearing a tired smile on his face and casual slacks paired with a printed collared shirt.

"Oh my god, Cobb!" I exclaim. His smile widens as he walks further into the room.

"Impressive stuff," he says. His hands are pushed into his pockets and his face is lined, as if he's aged so much since the Inception. I have a hundred questions to ask him, but they're not the kind of questions I can outright say. _Do you dream? Does Mal still haunt you?_

"What are you doing here?" Arthur asks. He stands up and meets Cobb, giving him that half hug that men often do. Cobb runs a hand through his hair, and for a moment I wonder if everything really is okay, if he moved on after he was acquitted of all his charges. But then he smiles warmly.

"It's Miles's 50th wedding anniversary tomorrow, and we're celebrating here. I heard you were working on another job and since you all were part of what brought me back with my family, we'd all be honoured if you would come out and celebrate with us," he says. I haven't seen Miles since I was offered the Inception job. A part of me is excited to see him, but another feels guilty for not keeping in touch.

My presentation is set aside (thankfully), as the group catches up with the infamous extractor. I wait my turn patiently, going over my research notes until Cobb approaches me. I smile as he sits beside me and place my notes on a nearby end-table.

"So you're an independent architect these days, huh?" he says. I can't help but blush a little.

"I'm doing my best. Honestly I wouldn't be doing anything but this," I reply. He sighs wistfully.

"I miss it sometimes. The thrill of it, you know," he says.

"So why don't you do some work?" I ask. He pauses for a moment before replying, like the idea has been stuck in his mind for some time now.

"Well, I'm living a legitimate life these days, I've just started my own architect firm over in the States, and I want to be around for James and Phillippa. They're still dealing with the loss of... their mother, and I have a lot of time to make up for them," he says finally.

"And you?" To this he chuckles slightly.

"I'm coping," he replies.

"You're not dreaming anymore, are you?" I ask, more of a statement than question. He shakes his head, and his eyes cast off as if looking into some distant memory.

"She's gone now. Completely. Even if I try to find her, I can't. I guess after all this time having her projection always there felt like she hadn't really died, but now it's finally hitting home. I'm truly grieving for the first time," he says. I place a hand on his shoulder gently.

"This is going to sound weird, but I'm proud of you. It wasn't healthy for you to keep her here, and even though it's hard to deal with the distance of her being gone, you can start to move on with your life," I say softly. His lips tilt in a half-smile, but his eyes are still fixed on the floor.

"You know, you talk a lot of wisdom for someone your age," he says.

"I've lost people in my life, too. You can only learn from experience," I whisper in reply. He doesn't ask about it, and I'm thankful for that. We pass a few moments in silence, deep in the memories we're both still trying to push away.

"Well, I hope you do well on the job, I know you'll figure everything out. You're coming to the party tomorrow, right?" he says finally. I nod in response.

"I'll have to go shopping with T tomorrow for a dress. You know, for a man, he has impeccable taste," I say, which sends Cobb into an open laugh.

"It's the French in him. Mal always used to make fun of my fashion choices. Will you be brining a date?" he asks offhandedly. I frown slightly, my eyes wavering quickly between Eames, who's laughing at one of T's jokes, and Arthur, who's rolling his eyes with the smallest of grins on his face. "Oh, I see," Cobb says. I gasp and turn back to him.

"No, no, no, no, no. No date," I say quickly. He raises his eyebrows, mirth reaching him for seemingly the first time in awhile.

"You'll figure it out, trust me. Just make sure you follow your heart, not your mind," he says. I furrow my eyebrows.

"Wait, shouldn't it be the other way around?" He shakes his head no, a wry smile on his face.

"Your heart knows what's really best for you. If I'd followed my mind, which was telling me to not date my professor's daughter, or a French girl I could never hope to impress, I never would have had the many happy years I did have with Mal before everything."

"Please don't mention this to anyone," I say. He makes a motion as if zipping his lips shut.

"Until tomorrow, then. It was good to see you, Ariadne, and don't worry, I've heard nothing but spectacular things about your work."

My mouth hangs open slightly as he hugs me gently and walks back toward the group. Until now, my main focus was the job, with a sideline of romantic questioning on my mind, but with the arrival of this anniversary, I can't focus on anything but. I motion T over as soon as the rest of the crew is tied up in conversation.

"We'll go over your report after this fete, ma belle," he says, as if that's what's on my mind.

"I need your help," I say. He looks me over like I'm a puzzle he's been trying to solve. "With buying a dress," I add quickly, before he can get any ideas. He nods, his posture slipping into that of debonair Frenchman (which happens anytime his skills are spotlighted. It's become a drinking game).

"I know just the place. But, before you go off into your feminine reverie, I require your assistance as well," he says.

"With shopping?" I ask sceptically. He chuckles softly.

"Non. I want you to come with me tonight, to visit Florence," he says quietly so no one else can hear. I prop up an eyebrow.

"Are you sure that's the best idea? I'm pretty sure she has a hate-on for me," I reply.

"I think that you might be one of the only people she'll listen to at this point. With Eames around she's hopeless, and she treats me like a stranger, but you are a woman, and more to the point you're an architect that has gone through her programming. I think the two of you will find some common ground there," he replies.

I can't help but let my eyes wander to Eames. He's talking animatedly with his hands, that irresistible smile on his face. My heart pangs, so familiar now, and the distance between us feels like rot in my chest. Whether it's real or not matters little to me now, but there's always the threat that our attraction is only because of the test. Even though she loves Eames, it's possible that Ren can help me understand. I turn back to T and nod.

"I'll come with you."

The car ride to the halfway house where Ren is staying is mostly silent. We make limited small-talk, but both of our minds are focussed on preparing for what's going to happen when we walk through that door. I'm petrified the girl is going to attack me, and I'm sure that T's heart is close to breaking as his wife doesn't recognize him yet again. He sighs continually until we reach the house, the sun just beginning its final yawn before descending into dusk.

"After you," I say when we walk up to the door. The house itself is huge, but old, its bricks slowly decaying. There's a sign on the front that reads _Maison du Chance_, a rather euphemistic name, if anything. A kindly nurse meets us at the door and shuffles us to the meeting room. We pass by a communal living room where a few people boredly watch television, and the nurse's station, which is locked and guarded. T must have called ahead, because Ren is already in the room when we enter. She's curled up on a ratty old couch, her blonde tresses tied messily on top of her head, and she's dressed more formally in a pretty summer dress that gives her lithe body a little more shape. She doesn't react when we enter, but keeps her eyes staring off toward the window.

"Salut Florence," T says as we sit across from her. Her lips curl into a frown.

"C'est Ren. Tu Sais," she replies stoically. T sighs again, rubbing his face.

"I've brought someone else with me today," he says in English. Ren acknowledges me with a brief nod.

"Where is he?" she asks.

"He's not coming," I answer in T's place. Ren steers her gaze at me, sneering.

"I didn't ask you, _Ariadne_. So this is it, then?" she says. T nods, but I see the hurt in his gaze, and I can't stand it.

"Ren, you need to accept that your real name is Florence, and that this man is your husband, not Eames, and you are hurting him every minute of the day," I retort. I cringe, expecting an out lash of insults, but instead she just sighs.

"I know this. Henri, I know this, but it cannot stick. I can't help the way I feel, and I can't help who I am now. It's like I've been reborn, and Ren is now, and Florence was then. I can't connect the two," she says. T perks up a little, eyes lined with the seeds of tears.

"You just called me Henri," he says incredulously.

"Things have... changed," she replies, then turns back to me, "I know that I cannot compete with fate. He loves you. Maybe even truly loves you. He does not, and will not love me." I'm silent for a minute, struggling for the right words.

"We aren't really seeing each other. We know what the Palace does. We don't want to build something on a basis of untruth," I say. She laughs suddenly, a bubbly giggle instead of the mad shrieking I've heard before.

"Silly girl. You don't understand yet, what it means to love, or be in love. The Palace has little to do with it. Of course it ties your subconscious to each other, but it's more than that. The relationship becomes what it is meant to become, regardless of how you might try to pretend you don't feel a certain way. Right now you think you are in agony, but just wait, you'll soon see how deep love can cut," she says. I'm rendered speechless, unsure if I even completely understand what she's talking about.

"Can you change it?" I ask timidly. Maybe if our subconscious selves weren't tied, I wouldn't be so confused. I'd be able to go about a normal life instead of being drawn to someone I can't be with.

"Maybe. Not now. It's not time, for you or for me. Look at me. I'm stuck here because of what dreamshare has done to me. Do you want to be me? Mad, heartbroken, and hurting everyone you know?" I shake my head no in response as T butts in.

"Florence, what happened that day, when everything changed?" he asks. She inhales deeply, as if remembering some tragic incident. I can see the pain on her face.

"I went too far, that's all I know. Everything before and during is a blur. Sometimes I remember things, but only as an old memory, faded and torn apart. I know you, Henri, I've known you for some time now, but I'm confused. Every day is a battle for me, you must understand," she says. He nods again, and reaches for her hands. She takes them tentatively, and I can't help but wonder what exactly is going through her mind.

"Do you think you'll ever remember?" he asks. She shrugs, then shoots another glance my way.

"Make me a program, Ariadne. Design me a map to discover myself. Maybe then I can finally be happy again, instead of this shell as a person." I find myself nodding before I've even thought it over. Design a program to put back together a shattered mind? Can I do this?

But then the lucidity of Ren twists, and she pulls her hands away from T in an almost disgusted manner.

"I want you to leave. You shouldn't be here, especially _you_," she shrieks at me. T stands almost as quickly as I do.

"Now Florence, please be calm," T coos, but she immediately stands and tosses the armchair beside her onto the ground.

"My name is Ren. How many times do I need to tell you who I am? You've both ruined me, ruined my life, my career. You've ruined me!" she shouts. A nurse in pale blue garb rushes into the room and toward Ren.

"You stay the fuck away from me!" she screams, but the nurse is quick to inject her with some type of sedative, and within moments Ren is placid, her eyes blank as she allows the nurse to guide her out of the room.

"I think that's enough for today," the nurse calmly explains to T. His face is weathered as he watches his wife leave, drugged to the point of near zombieism. I pat his arm, unsure of what to do or say.

"We'll figure something out," I eventually muster, but to my surprise T isn't sullen and forlorn, but instead looks hopeful.

"She remembered my name," he whispers. In his eyes I don't see the tragedy of a broken lover, but instead the look of a man that is willing to do whatever it takes for the woman he loves, a man that has watched her pine over his co-worker and burst into angry fits, and still loves her with all of his being.

All the way home, all I can think about is how I want someone to feel that love for me, but I won't settle for manufactured love. I want it to be real.

*Next: The Party, an amazing dress, a dance, jealousy and more!

**A/N** Thank you to all for reading! I will try my best to update often as possible through my busy life! Love you all!**


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